Offering
by lunadatura
Summary: SimonInara. Set preseries. Sequel to Overlap. A hint at Simon & Inara's secret history.


I begin by offering him lychees in sugar and ice. The skinned fruits float, pale and plump as moons, in a lake of broken crystals. That light is held and refracted in a single silver bowl: one bowl, so that we will have to reach for each other as we eat.

Companions are taught to offer lychees when we wish to convey an impression of untapped sensuality. Their sweetness is remarkable for its innocence: it's a clean taste, like strawberries or golden grapes, which begins gently and floods the mouth with bliss when the skin is burst.

I lift the first lychee between engraved ivory chopsticks and place it, gently, in his hand. As Simon bites into the fruit, his eyes close and his jaw clenches. He makes a small, soft moan. I like to imagine his pleasure, to think of the golden juice flowing along his tongue.

"This is amazing," he says. "When you invited me into your rooms for tea, I expected… well, tea played a crucial role in my expectations."

"That's understandable," I say, laughing mildly.

"All this," he says, gesturing at the table laden with silver and glass, "did you make it yourself? You don't have to… we can give you anything you need…"

"Consider it my thanks," I say, "for accompanying me to the lake last night. It was truly lovely."

He blushes and stares down at his lap. While his eyes are downcast, I study his fine, almost feminine features, and the perfection of his skin. _Oh, Mr. Tam,_ I think. _I could just eat you up._

When the lychees are gone, the ice and sugar remain, melting into a single sea, which gleams like a trapped star in the bowl. I move it aside, carefully, and offer Simon the next course: flame-colored pomegranates under a bell of translucent white porcelain.

He gasps, audibly, as I uncover the fruit.

"Wo de ma," he says. The Chinese syllables tumble roughly from his tongue. "How did you find these, let alone afford them? They're out of season, aren't they?"

"Thanks to the wonders of space travel, nothing is out of season," I say. "I know an orchard on a small moon not far from here. I had them delivered. I must say, Mr. Tam, I never thought I could deliver a shock great enough to make you swear."

"I must seem like such a prig to you," he says.

His gaze meets mine and holds onto it, desperately, like the grasp of a lost sailor clinging to a mermaid. I see hesitation and shame flicker through his eyes. I've never seen them so close before, and they're startlingly lovely – deep, gentle, the color of sea glass and fog.

I take his hand in both of mine and cradle it for a moment, savoring its warmth. I realize, suddenly, that I'm frightened; I realize how long it's been since anyone has been able to frighten me.

I pry his hand open, one finger at a time. In the hollow of his hand, I place a pomegranate and a knife.

"Please," I say, "eat."

Pomegranates are a tricky offering. They have to be broken with fingers and knives; their juice stains the skin, like spilled blood. But their seeds are sweet and tart, each one a small heaven, and there's something undeniably thrilling about forcing that hard flesh to yield its goodness. They're rare on any planet, and worth more than rubies: rubies, after all, can be synthesized, but no-one can fake fruit. Companions are paid in pomegranates, sometimes, just as we're occasionally paid in gowns or jewels; we rarely have enough money to buy them for ourselves. But when we do offer them to a client, we use them to suggest the loss of innocence, and the corresponding lure of unknown pleasures.

Simon eats his pomegranate delicately, with his sleeves rolled back to his elbows, slicing it open and removing the seeds with surgical precision. It hardly even bleeds. I lack his clinical grace. As I eat, a trickle of dark red fluid runs down the furrow of my palm, toward my wrist. I lick it off, like a little girl, letting him see how the gesture renders me awkward and self-conscious. He laughs. His smile – rare, sudden, brilliant – is like a celebratory firework, a blast of unexpected radiance.

"Shall we have our tea now?" he says, the warmth of his eyes belying the formality of the words.

"In a manner of speaking," I say, playfully, hoping that my tone conceals the wretched state of my nerves as I reach under the table and offer Simon my final gift.

"Sake," he breathes.

He reaches out, almost reverently, to trace the gold calligraphy on the label. It's a brand that he knows; a brand that few people can afford to drink casually. I imagine that he has seen it before, on certain occasions: betrothal parties, weddings, the birth of a firstborn son or daughter. On Osiris, only family commands that kind of extravagant celebration. Simon is young, not more than eighteen years old; I wonder if he's ever been allowed to drink it.

When he looks up at me, his eyes are full of doubt and light.

"Inara," he says. "Why are you doing this?"

I dispel my fear as I've been trained to do, by closing my eyes for the space of a single breath. I smile sweetly as I prepare to speak, hoping in vain that it will dull the blow of the truth.

"This is my price," I say. "The cost of this dinner matches the price that your father paid me to sleep with you."

He inhales once, sharply.

"Your father is under the impression that you haven't been with anyone yet," I say. "It's not uncommon for a man of your standing to have his first encounter with a Companion. Nor is it terribly rare for a family member to finance the encounter. I can see that I'm not telling you anything that you don't know. I had planned to tell you about the contract soon, but after last night, it became clear that I couldn't go through with it."

Simon's face is bleak as the raw edge of space. His mouth has thinned to a slit, and he refuses to meet my eyes, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere beyond and above my right shoulder.

"I see," he says, faintly. "Thank you for your honesty."

I place my hand on his.

"I couldn't go through with it," I say, "because last night, it became clear that, even if your father hadn't paid me, things would probably go the same way. I want to meet you as a free woman, Mr. Tam, with no obligations. So, I'm paying you back. After tonight, nothing will stand in the way of our friendship: no debts, and no deceptions."

He takes a breath. He brings his eyes to rest on my hand, where it curls around his wrist like the vine of a climbing rose; he lets it travel, slowly, along my arm, until he meets my eyes.

"You ought to call me Simon," he says, gently, as he lifts my hand to his mouth.


End file.
